Unexpected Means

Unexpected

Means

By

Henry O’Keefe

Copyright Henry O’Keefe 2004

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-55349-119-4

Published by Books for Pleasure at Smashwords

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge Robin Maugham, the nephew and biographer of W. Somerset Maugham, and his book – Recollections of W. Somerset Maugham. I fashioned the character Willy Mudskipper after Somerset Maugham. Thanks

Many thanks to my son Jeff, Brian Demizio, Louanne Penny and my life-long buddy Jerry Cunningham for their encouragement and support. I wish also to thank Bill Steinburg and my daughter Michele O'Keefe for their editing skills. I most of all wish to thank my wife Coco, for her patience, encouragement and the use of her always-available ear. 

Unexpected Means cover picture shows the Vauxhall Cross building which has been home to Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6, since 1994. MI6 was previously housed at Century House in Lambeth.

CHAPTER I

British Intelligence had a stroke of incredibly good luck. A young man born in England of expatriate Russian parents and now well placed in the Foreign Ministry in Moscow had contacted the embassy and offered his services as a spy. Giorgi Lasta and his family had left England years earlier when his grandfather died and returned to Russia to care for his grandmother and to take over running the old man’s bakery.

Giorgi graduated from Moscow University at the top of his class in political science and immediately started work at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had been on the job less than a month when he knew he had found his calling

By the time the 1917 Revolution started, he had risen to the rank of Assistant to the Deputy-Minister. When the revolution was over and the Communists were firmly entrenched as the government, word quickly spread that those employees of the ministry who did not join The Party could expect to rise no higher than their present level and, although it was not a published edict, everyone understood that those who did not join would be made redundant as suitable loyal party members came available.

Prior to this, Giorgi would never have considered joining the Communist Party. During his time at university, he had read Marx and Engel’s The Communist Manifesto and had come to the conclusion it would eventually bring about the economic ruin of any society that adopted its teachings. He had to do his part to ensure the madness was short lived. Consequently, he joined the Party and then immediately contacted the British Embassy.

Over the spring and summer of 1923, MI6 Agent Willy Mudskipper made several visits to Moscow searching for a person to act as a go-between. This person had to have access to the Foreign Ministry, be able to meet Giorgi Lasta, the mole, and the agent running the mole, all without drawing attention to anyone, a very tall order. So far, he had been unsuccessful and was running out of reasons to give Russian Customs for why he once again was seeking entry to the country. He was therefore, pleased with himself when he came up with what he believed to be the perfect cover for his next foray.

In real life, he had achieved some success as an author and playwright and over the years, several of his works had been performed on the London stage. He wrote to an old friend in Moscow, a playwright called Anatolly Presnicov and convinced him they should work together to write a play, a drama for the Moscow theatre.

He and Anatolly had met years before when Anatolly was in London with a troupe of Russian actors who were touring England. At the time, they were presenting one of Anatolly’s plays at a theatre where Willy spent a great deal of time. Because they both loved the theatre and writing, they had an almost immediate bonding of spirits.

The revolutionary government in Russia was moving to restrict cross-border travel and thereby pressing MI6 to move quickly to solidify its position with the newly acquired mole.

Willy contacted Anatolly and suggested it would be wise to get their project underway as soon as possible. Anatolly replied without delay, agreeing that a quick start was indeed a good idea and said that he would clear his September calendar. Willy left for Moscow the following day.

It was important that Anatolly believe that he was in Moscow solely to write the play. It was to this end that Willy kept him bottled up in his flat, working eighteen-hour days for a solid week. They even had their meals brought in and the only time either man left the flat was when Willy returned to his hotel at the end of the day.

Even though writing the play was a ploy, Willy found himself totally swept up in their work. He had been a writer long before he had become a spy and he would be a writer again.

After one particularly hard day’s work and a major success in resolving a problem with a difficult part in the play, Willy suggested a much-needed change of scenery and offered to take Anatolly out to dinner as a sort of celebration. That morning, before he left his hotel, he made reservations at a restaurant that was frequented – he had been advised – by highly placed bureaucrats. British Intelligence had recently learned there was a Russian man who was entering and leaving England on a regular basis. The fact that he seemed to be able to move about so freely made him a strong candidate for the job of go-between and instructed Willy to take a look at him. Apparently, he was a regular at this restaurant.

Outside the restaurant an awning covered a red carpet that ran from the curbside up several steps to the front door. A man in uniform greeted them and held the door. Inside, in the foyer, they checked their coats and confirmed their reservation then made their way towards the dining room.

Willy was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the room. Never before had he seen such splendour. It was huge, round and paneled with polished oak. At intervals of approximately four metres an enormous window – draped in white – interrupted the paneling and stretched from floor to dappled ceiling. The floors were covered – wall-to-wall – with the finest Persian carpets and a pictorial biography of Peter the Great was carved into the cornice that coupled ceiling to walls three metres above their heads.

A dozen magnificent chandeliers filled the enormous room in a shimmering veil of light.

Every table was filled with fashionably dressed diners. Lenin’s bourgeoisies, Willy speculated.

The moment they crossed the threshold they were met by the mâitre’d and led to a table near the centre of the room. From his vantage point Willy could see into three smaller rooms, all just as elegant and all just as full. The proprietor of this place must be in a terrible state, knowing he would soon have to forfeit it all, he thought. This Communism business was not going to be very pleasant for some people.

How he was going to find the man he was looking for in this crowd was a mystery. The MI6 profile had said he frequented the restaurant, but what did that mean, once a week, once a month? Turning him up might require several visits and how could he do that without raising Anatolly’s suspicion.

The photograph of Sergei Koslov he had been shown was not the sharpest but he hoped that between the photo and the written description, he had developed a good enough mental picture of the man and would be able to pick him out when he saw him. He had asked to be allowed a look at him when he was in London but the boss had refused his request. Willy wanted to arrange an incidental encounter with the man. Perhaps, he could accidentally bump him in the street or in a restaurant so he could get a close look at him, but his idea was overruled as being too risky, there was the possibility that Koslov would remember him as well.

His thinking was interrupted by the mâitre’d’s return.

Excuse me gentlemen. I realize this is a rather bold request, but would you consider sharing your table. There is another gentleman who is alone and has arrived without a reservation. I’m afraid there isn’t an empty table in the entire restaurant. He is a very good customer and I hate to turn him away.

Anatolly and Willy looked at each other. Neither could think of a reason to deny the request.

I’ve been in that situation and would have appreciated a little kindness, said Anatolly. I say we do our good deed for the day.

Most definitely, Willy agreed. Tell the fellow that we would be happy to share our table with him.

Thank you for being so kind. I have known him for some time and I can assure you he is a true gentleman. I think you will enjoy his company. He is a delightful conversationalist.

Willy was speechless when the mâitre’d introduced Sergei Koslov, the man from the MI6 photograph.

He was more than six-foot tall and weighed at least 18 stone. His face was soft and round, without a trace of a wrinkle, his sea-blue eyes sparkled and when he smiled his entire face lit up. He had a full head of wavy dark hair but strangely his eyebrows were so fair they were barely visible. Willy judged him to be about forty years old. Despite his girth, his three-piece suit was a perfect fit. Willy recognized it as Savile Row.

At the start, Willy found carrying on a conversation and dealing with his unbelievable good fortune at the same time was a difficult task, but in under an hour, anyone passing the table would have thought the three men, sitting in this lavish dining room enjoying a wonderful meal and drinking ten-year-old whiskey, were life-long friends. They talked about their work, laughed at one-another’s humorous anecdotes and discussed various stage plays. Willy liked the man straight off. He was not connected to the theatre other than by way of his love for literature and the stage. His business took him to England and Europe often and he had once been to the United States and Canada. Whenever he was in London he made a point of going to the theatre and he had been to Stratford-Upon-Avon twice. Sergei was in the fur trade.

At one point in the discussion, Willy craftily introduced politics to the conversation. All three men unconsciously lowered their voices. Expressing one’s political opinion too loudly in post-revolutionary Russia could be dangerous, doubly so if that opinion was critical of the Communist government.

Willy’s dinner companions each held strong but diverse views. Sergei was a businessman and despised the idea that free enterprise was being eradicated. Anatolly, on the other hand, had lived and endured the deprivation of the underclass in the Czar’s Russia. He had experienced hunger. His father, a hapless man, had worked hard to improve his lot, but no matter how he tried, he had been unable lift his family out of the abysmal poverty. The repression had been so great it had made slaves of the working class. Communism, on the other hand, would ensure that everyone was treated equally, no favours for anyone, only reasonable reward for hard work. But above all, no Russian child would suffer from the lack of food and shelter.

Sergei agreed that the poor had not been treated well under the Czar, but killing incentive or the hope of achieving greater heights, as Mr. Lenin’s plan would surely do, would not help the people.

"What Russia needs is investment. We need to create an economic environment that would induce the wealthy to spend their money building shops and factories thereby creating jobs. Good, well paying jobs. A democratically elected government carrying out the will of the people would have been a good place to start.

The Czar could have been returned to the throne, a symbol of Russian history and tradition, the titular head in a parliamentary system, as in England, he said. But alas, the ruthless murder of the Royal Family ended any possibility of that happening, didn’t it?

The prize came when Anatolly was off on a search for the toilet. The moment they were alone, Sergei confessed to Willy that he would be delighted to see the end of Mr. Lenin and his gang. Willy struggled to conceal his surprise. To make such a statement, especially to a stranger, showed a dangerous lack of judgement that could rule him out for serious consideration or, was it just the effect of too much of the single malt? He wondered. If the declaration was an indication of how upset he was about the Communist’s take-over, was he approachable?

When Anatolly returned to the table, Willy steered the conversation away from politics. He told his dinner partners he had recently heard of a showing in Paris of the works of the controversial Impressionists sponsored by a man called Paul Durand-Ruel and when Sergei confessed to never having seen any of it and that he would be in Paris the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of the week after next. Willy gave him directions to the gallery.

Eventually the evening came to an end and when the little group parted, Sergei made a promise to keep in touch with both Willy and Anatolly.

The next day dawned clear and pleasantly warm. When Willy arrived at Anatolly’s flat every window was open and Anatolly was engaged in a series of vigorous exercises. It was obvious the good weather and the conviviality of the previous evening had lifted his spirits. Willy took advantage of Anatolly’s good humour to suggest they take a break from their writing and make a trip to London.

Maybe we’re working too hard, he suggested. Putting too much pressure on ourselves. Are we taking ourselves too seriously? What would you think of the two of us going off to London for a few days? We could take in a play or two; dine at a few of London’s finer restaurants. One of my plays is being done at the Royal Court. I’ve met a young lady I’d like to introduce you to. We’ll have a wonderful time and when we’ve had enough we’ll come back, nicely refreshed and ready to dig in again.

He misjudged Anatolly, who immediately became extremely agitated.

Willy, we’ve only been at this for a week and out of nowhere you decide we need to run off to London. That’s just marvelous.

His face was flush with anger.

It’s been a hard week of sixteen hour days. Let’s go to London and let our hair down. It’ll be good for us and I want you to meet my friend Dorothy.

You know what Willy? Why don’t you go on your own? I have important business to take care of – things I put off so I could be here to work with you. I thought you were so anxious to write this bloody play! I went out of my way to accommodate you and this is what I get! What happened to your fear of the borders being closed?

Willy could see that arguing was futile. He would return at a later date, he promised, whether invited or not, when Anatolly had time to cool off. He had made a colossal blunder by not making plans to cover an incident like this. He absolutely had to get back to London to get the necessary clearances from his superiors before he could approach Sergei. He could not risk using the mail, it was too vulnerable to search and far too slow. A wire was out of the question as well. An enemy agent could easily squeeze the contents of a telegram out of a wireless operator. To delay would mean missing Sergei while he was in the West. Attempting to contact him here in Russia would be foolhardy.

Anatolly stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The people at the head of the Secret Intelligence Service were very concerned at the end of the war when it was thought Willy was going to leave.

Listen, even though the war is over, there are many lingering problems facing the governments of Europe, the most serious of which is the uncertain situation in Russia. Britain is determined to keep people on the inside in that maelstrom. To put agents in place, to recruit nationals unsympathetic to the Communists and to arrange their cover and contacts is going to be a major undertaking. Doing this job will require the skills of experienced undercover specialists like you, said the director, Sir Thomas Cranston-Smith.

Cranston-Smith was relieved when Willy did decide to stay on. He was considered a valuable asset, and was told that he could expect to be a large part of the plans for an expanded Secret Intelligence Service, to be promoted, that there was no limit to the heights to which he might rise. It was suggested he could one day become director and help determine British foreign policy.

Willy had at one point given a great deal of thought to making the spy business his career. He eventually gave up that idea but decided he would stay on for a bit longer. Though for his own reasons – he felt he still had something to contribute and working as an undercover agent could be exciting. He figured he still had a few good years left in him.

But now it was over. He was leaving and he was not going to change his mind, not this time. He would stay only long enough to see his latest assignment through to its conclusion. He had invested a great deal of time and effort in finding the liaison MI6 needed and he wanted to see it completed successfully.

* * *

As soon as he arrived in London, Willy went straight to MI6 Headquarters. A decision would have to be made quickly if he was to get back to Paris in time to intercept Sergei before he returned to Russia.

At a meeting with his superior, Captain Cumming, Willy gave his evaluation of Sergei. The Captain promised to speak with the director as soon as possible. An undertaking of this magnitude would require his approval.

Sir, if there is a delay and my man returns home before I can speak with him, we will have lost valuable time, it could be months before I’m able to catch him in Europe again. You know it is my intent to retire soon but I had hoped to finish this assignment before I go. If we miss this opportunity, it could delay my retirement plans for months.

I understand how you feel, but eventually, we may well end up dealing with the Secretary. I can’t just ring up the Director and announce that I’m popping in for a chat. I will push as hard as I can to get to see him. I’m almost certain he will give us the go-ahead. He has great faith in you and I’ll add my recommendation to yours. Go home – get into a hot bath with a good stiff drink of whiskey. I think you could probably do with both. Just as soon as I have something to tell you, I’ll be in touch.

* * *

A smoke-filled shaft of sunlight pierced the dimness of the crowded room, and unraveled itself across the surface of the empty table. Empty, but for one finicky teacup, arrogantly flaunting its graceful form. It brought to mind a picture of a ballerina dancing in the spotlight on the stage of a darkened theatre.

Getting the tea down was taking forever. Clear tea, with just a little sugar, was the only thing she had been able to put in her stomach for more than a week. She had no idea what was keeping her going.

Dorothy had gone to work that morning feeling just fine but she had not been there for more than an hour, when she quite suddenly became violently ill and had to make her way back home.

Mr. Blackburn, her boss, was extremely agitated.

Miss Millington, we are already fighting a backlog of orders. You can’t go running off home simply because you have a tummy ache, he had pleaded.

She smiled as she recalled that before he had finished his admonition, she had heaved up, splashing vomit over his shoes and up his pant legs. He gagged, clasped his hands over his mouth, and ran into his office.

She dragged herself off to the rail station, where she somehow managed to get onto the train and home.

She spent the next six days in bed, fighting a fever and delirium, her stomach retching continuously. Her suffering had become so unbearable that at one point she had begged God to be merciful, to end it all.

The Almighty must not have been listening, she reflected, because it went on for two more days and nights. The sixth day brought a small measure of relief. She improved a bit more on days seven and eight and on day nine, she returned to the shop and a sheepish, but grateful, Moses Blackburn.

Her entire body had objected to her being back at work, but she managed to stick out the morning and at lunch time she made her way to Lyons hoping that if she could get something into her stomach, she might glean enough strength to see her through the afternoon.

As she stepped inside the door, the reek of brewing tea and cigarette smoke smacked her like the flat end of a boat paddle full in the face and very nearly started her retching all over again. She staggered back out onto the pavement and collapsed on a bench in a bus shelter that stood in front of the adjoining building. The entire world started reeling. Bile rose into her throat. She remained in the shelter with her eyes closed trying to shut out the nauseating whirling; feverishly sucking in the exhaust filled air. Eventually, the queasiness passed and she made a second attempt to get through the door. Inside the dimly lit room, she sank into the first available chair.

On the train ride into the city that morning, she had read in the paper that more than half the city’s population had been forced to its beds, and a large percentage of those had gone from there to the grave, struck down by what the writer called another black plague. The Spanish Flu was killing people faster, and in greater numbers, than the war had, and there was no cure.

She sat staring into the murky tea, thinking about her job and Moses Blackburn, her employer.

She had only been working for him a week when he began to heap praise on her, telling her what a capable person she was. Having hired her was his good fortune, he said, because she had turned out to be exactly the type of employee he had been looking for and then, at the same time, he added to her workload.

He taught her the basics; the order of doing things day to day and it was not long before he began leaving her in charge while he went about his personal matters. As time passed, he started spending less and less time in the shop and relying more and more on her to see to the running of things.

Dorothy had had no accounting experience whatsoever but even she could see that the business had been neglected and it was beginning to show signs of failing. She said nothing to anyone; she simply set about turning things around.

Buyers, salesmen and employees alike were coaxed and cajoled into working along with her as players on her team. In a very short time, she increased the volume of business and improved the profit margin substantially but the only appreciation Blackburn showed was a bit of cheap flattery.

Dorothy was no dolt and realized that she was being used. She decided that as long as she was learning something she would not say anything but eventually, when she was no longer benefiting, she would confront him. He would pay or she would leave. It was as simple as that.

Even if she did have to quit, it would not be a complete loss, she had already learned a lot. The talk throughout the West End was that Dorothy Millington was not only a skilled sewer, but now a savvy businesswoman as well.

She had learned through inter-shop gossip that several shopkeepers had given Blackburn a dressing down for allowing a woman such freedom with his business. Putting her in charge just was not appropriate. This was no job for a woman.

She thought back to her first job, in another shop, where she had worked her way up from fetch-it-girl to a first-rate sewer. The owner of that shop was a surly man who made everyone who worked for him ill tempered.

You needn’t stay here if you’re unhappy Dorothy, a friend told her. You could get a job anywhere, and get better money.

She loved the fur trade. Her job meant more to her than a means of earning a salary. This was her career. She dreamed of having a shop of her own even though she knew it would take something of a miracle. Women were rarely seen in positions of authority in commerce. There were a few cases where, through inheritance, women had acquired ownership of businesses, but they were usually forced to sell them off or hire a man to do the hands-on, day-to-day running of the business. If she was ever able to get her hands on a place of her own, she knew she would have to do battle with every male shop owner in the business.

* * *

She prayed the tea would stay down. She needed something to keep her stomach calm. Blackburn would go off the deep end if she had to go home again. Not only were the orders slipping behind schedule again since she had been away, but he had missed the last five afternoons at the racetrack. If the truth were known, she didn’t want him getting involved again. Things were running along nicely, thank you very much. If he did get involved again she was afraid he would undo everything she had accomplished.

Dorothy got up to leave but before she could take a step, her legs went completely numb and she fell heavily to the floor. When she regained her senses, she was looking up into the face of a strange man.

Are you all right, young lady? he asked. No, no, don’t try to get up. You’ve just had a nasty bang on the head. Maybe we should call a doctor. You fainted. This influenza going around is very dangerous you know. Puts a person down in no time.

I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right! she replied as she touched the fast swelling prune on her forehead. Please help me up. I’ve just finished with the flu and I’m still a little weak. I returned to my work just this morning. I may have rushed it a bit.

She knew she was blathering.

Several patrons had gathered round but began to wander away again once they saw that she was unhurt.

You must be careful. I’m sure your work will be there when you return, in a more healthy state, and you should have that knock on the head looked after, he said as he guided her back into her chair.

His hair was peppery grey and parted in the middle. It would have been possible to hang a lantern on his jaw and not have to worry about burning his chest. His forehead was deeply furrowed and he had a hawkish nose that seemed to be pasted to his face. She wondered if he had extensions to his arms concealed inside his jacket sleeves because his gargantuan hands very nearly reached his knees. She thought to herself that it was a good thing his suit was so impeccably tailored and that his posture was so erect; otherwise he might be taken for a clean-shaven orangutan. Though one was unlikely to refer to him as handsome, he had other less superficial qualities – his deep blue eyes that exuded inner warmth and the softness in his voice that was calmingly gentle.

I’m happy I was here to help. I was watching you and hoping to take your table when you left. he said. Do you mind if I join you? This place is jam-packed and there aren’t any other tables available. He sat down before she had a chance to answer. May I give you more tea? You were having tea?

Dorothy really didn’t want more tea, but his charm had completely disarmed her and she found herself saying yes anyway.

Wonderful, he said. Now, if I can just find a waitress.

He rose and disappeared into the swarms of people who were crowding in, filling every inch of open floor space. Momentarily, he reappeared, trailing a young woman behind him.

Will you have a biscuit with your tea? he asked. You need something more substantial than tea, that is if you insist on returning to work this afternoon. Certainly you will, he answered for her.

He turned back to the young server whom he continued to hold captive and ordered tea and biscuits for two, urging her to make haste lest they succumb to their hunger.

Contrary to lore, an Englishman cannot live by tea alone, he chortled. My name is Willy.

Willy was a gracious man.

I’ve just returned from Russia and I dare say, they have not yet learned to make a decent cup of tea.

Dorothy had been reading all she could get her hands on about the revolution. She was interested to know what effect the upheaval would have on the huge fur industry in that country.

What is the situation there? Are things settling down? she asked.

Everything is still in a great deal of turmoil. The Bolsheviks are talking about closing the borders apparently. No one will be allowed in or out of the country.

Surely, it will all return to normal one day, she suggested.

Oh. I’m sure it will. There is a great deal going on. To give you the entire picture would take more time than I have right now, he said. "Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening?

If you’re feeling all right that is. I could tell you more. You’d be getting it first hand, from someone who has been there.

* * *

As soon as Dorothy got back from lunch, Blackburn donned his jacket, scarcely glanced at the swelling on her head and was out the door in less than fifteen seconds, headed for the racetrack. He knew she was in no state to be working but he didn’t care, his only interest was making it to the track in time to put down a wager on the first race.

The happening at Lyons had taken its toll and she was feeling woozy. As soon as Blackburn was out of sight, she headed for his office and the big leather armchair. She needed rest for half an hour. The biscuit that Willy had ordered for her had required some effort to get down, but her stomach was more settled.

She felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing him again. There were several years between them she knew, but she hadn’t accepted a proposal of marriage, only an invitation to dinner.

They agreed he would pick her up at the shop the following evening and they would dine at a ‘lovely little place’ he had recently discovered.

Willy Mudskipper. That was an odd name, she thought.

The following day was routine. Blackburn disappeared at noon and the rest of the day was taken up by visits from two fabric salesmen.

At 5:30 Dorothy slipped away to the ladies room to change, revamp her makeup and try to disguise the head injury that was now reduced to only a bruise. She had brought along one of her prettier dresses and a matching pair of shoes.

Her hair had always had a natural wave and that saved having to pay extra when she got her new-age bob haircut. She liked the style and she had never been happy having to spend the time needed to care for the long, shoulder length hair that was the fad until recently.

She had thick, dark eyebrows over blue eyes, not the deep blue of Willy’s but a lighter, more powdery blue. A little smaller nose would be more becoming, she had often thought but she liked her full lips. She slipped into the dress, looked at herself in the small mirror and smoothed the front with her hands, approvingly turning side to side. The dress’ ability to hide her stocky frame made it her favourite.

She had good legs and whenever she bought shoes, she didn’t hold back. She fancied that well-made, stylish shoes, accentuated their shape.

At six o’clock sharp a long and luxurious Voisin drew up in front of the little shop in Berners Street. A uniformed chauffeur emerged and opened the rear door. Willy stepped to the pavement and entered the shop.

He was dressed in a black, woollen coat, grey striped pants, grey spats, a black bowler hat and grey gloves. He carried a walking stick with a mother-of-pear handgrip.

Dorothy’s co-workers were dumbstruck. They milled about with open mouths, gawking. They would not have been any more flabbergasted if he had been the Prince of Wales. As a matter of fact, for all they knew, he may well have been the Prince of Wales.

She had not spoken to anyone about Willy and so they did not know who he was or why he was there. When he took her hand and kissed it, they were completely flummoxed.

Dorothy handed the keys to Mrs. Miles, asked her to be the last one out and to lock the door behind her. As she sashayed out the door on Willy’s arm, she called out a few final instructions to the workforce, all of which went completely unheeded.

As the car pulled away and up the street, she turned back for a last glimpse of the little group crowed in the doorway and knew she would spend the next day fielding a thousand questions.

The drive to the restaurant was short, which was a little disappointing since Dorothy had only once before ridden in a motorcar and it had been nowhere near as opulent as this one. Her best friend’s brother had the use of his employer’s motor to run errands and had nearly been sacked when on one occasion he took a detour into Waklin Road. As any young man would do to impress the girls, he took Ada, Dorothy and two other friends for a ride through the neighbourhood. None of them had ridden in a car before. They were awestruck to think that they were speeding about at 15 miles per hour. Tom’s guv’nor somehow got wind of his little frolic and there was the devil to pay.

Darkness fell and it started to rain. As each droplet struck the window, it joined the milieu in a never-ending race to the bottom of the glass. Dorothy looked at her reflection in the mirrored pane and wondered what in the name of God was the daughter of a Westham carpenter doing riding through the streets of London in a limousine sitting beside such a refined gentleman?

She had been thinking all day about their meeting at Lyons but her attempts to unravel the mystery behind his invitation to dinner evaded her.

To this point in her life she had had a grand total of five dates – four during her teenage years, all involving seeing a film and a trip to a chip wagon afterwards. Only once since, had she actually dated a man. He took her to a play and a proper dinner, and that was more than a year ago.

Why he had asked, she did not know. Real gentlemen didn’t ask working girls out. She wasn’t glamorous. She and Willy had not had any deep and brainy discussion that would have highlighted her great intellect. She had only just returned to work from a two-week battle for her life and she looked like a woman with one foot in the grave. She had really been incapable of any meaningful conversation.

The restaurant was elegant with 18th century decor. The small round tables were covered with crisp, white cloths, centered with bouquets of freshly cut flowers, and laid with exquisite silver. The serving staff was dressed as courtiers.

A mâitre’d met them as they entered, took their coats and escorted them to a reserved table. There were other patrons but the room was far from crowded. Obviously, there weren’t any other shop workers among them.

By the looks of it, the clientele in this establishment was the upper crust of London society. Dorothy noticed several furs draped over chairs. Even the rich did not allow their valuables out of their sight, she thought.

In the beginning, she felt out of place but her discomfort passed when she realized that no one was paying them any heed.

Willy proved once again the gentleman. He knew Dorothy would be uneasy with a menu, sans prices, so he did the ordering.

Just how bad are things in Russia, she asked. Is it possible the entire country could disintegrate? Could it collapse into total anarchy?

"Orderliness has broken down but things are still reparable, he said.

Mr. Trotsky controls the army and that gives him a strong hand. He eliminated most of the opposition quickly and somewhat brutally. Mr. Lenin, with Trotsky’s backing, has taken complete control of the government. I don’t think it will be long before things are up and running again. There wasn’t the mass destruction that happens in all-out war. I think it’s more a matter of getting the people back to work in the factories and on the farms than anything else. Everyone will face a great deal of hardship to begin with of course, but it won’t be overwhelming, not for those people. They are very much accustomed to hardship. I can’t help thinking that Communism will shackle ambition and imagination but starvation puts shackles on living and that is what the Czar was doing, starving millions of his people.

Didn’t the Czar and his cronies realize that sooner or later the people would rise up against them? Dorothy asked.

I’m sure they must have had an inkling, he said. I think they believed they could put down any insurrection. I suppose they didn’t reckon on the uprising being so massive, so inclusive. The Czar’s advisors were fools. But why the Bolsheviks found it necessary to murder him and his entire family is beyond me.

Willy shook his head in disgust.

That treacherous and cowardly act will not reflect well on the new regime. Loss of life during the violent overthrow of a government is inevitable but that was a wanton act of murder and will make it difficult for them to win recognition as a legitimate government.

Their meals arrived and the conversation changed direction.

Dorothy talked about her family and earlier times, before the war, when she and her siblings were all still at home. She had eight brothers and sisters, she told him, two brothers and six sisters. Their chums and beaux used the Millington home as a meeting place. Her eyes sparkled as she told him about times when, day or